


Lullabies

by r_lee



Category: Battlestar Galactica (2003)
Genre: F/M, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-10-13
Updated: 2011-10-13
Packaged: 2017-10-24 13:59:15
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,189
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/264235
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/r_lee/pseuds/r_lee
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>I could be bounded in a nutshell and count myself a king or queen of infinite space, were it not that I have bad dreams.</i> Four pairings filtered through wishes, nightmares, and dreams. Contains full-series spoilers.</p><p>Written for the off-season fanfic exchange <a href="http://ineedmyfics.livejournal.com">I Need My Fics</a> at LiveJournal.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Lullabies

**Author's Note:**

  * For [silveraspen](https://archiveofourown.org/users/silveraspen/gifts).



> Many thanks to Paige for beta-reading.

_All people dream, but not equally._  
Those who dream by night in the dusty recesses of their mind,  
Wake in the morning to find that it was vanity.

 _But the dreamers of the day are dangerous people,_  
For they dream their dreams with open eyes,  
And make them come true.

\--DH Lawrence

 

**I. Louis and Felix**

It wasn't always easy having come over from the Pegasus, but it did come with some small privileges. Not having to bunk down with ten other people, for one: Louis Hoshi was lucky that way. There was still a division of attitude on Galactica, if not of labor, one that spoke of the Pegasus under Admiral Cain as a reign of terror worse than the old days on Virgon when bloodthirsty monarchs ruled by the sword. It wasn't that bad; it was _exactly_ that bad. Given his so-called proclivities there were some assignments for which he was always bypassed and for that he had no shortage of gratitude. He never believed beating down the enemy by degradation was something that would work; after all, they were machines, not humans. And if they were smart machines (and they seemed to be), they would have programmed that ability right out of themselves. That was the ideal anyway, the on-paper justification for the things his crewmates had done.

He was never so sure about that, but he was sure that torture and its accompanying pursuits were never things he was meant to do. Gods, someone somewhere had a screw loose to think that kind of thing was going to further the war effort at all. Sympathies tugged at his heartstrings: that poor woman, he thought, only to be reminded by a constant feed of insistence that she was no woman but a robot and robots couldn't have feelings. Luckily once she was exposed as a Cylon he didn't have very much to do with her and that was a blessing; he didn't think he'd be able to live with himself if he had to see her crawling on the ground in chains and tatters. That imagery was bad enough. When he added the humiliation and other physical abuse to the mental image -- these were his comrades, the people with whom he served, the ones he had to rely on, the ones with whom there needed to be mutual respect -- he wanted to cry. He wanted to do something, but she was the enemy. She was the enemy, he had to remind himself of that. No matter how nightmarish the scenario, he had to believe in Admiral Cain, although he'd privately disagreed with a great many of her decisions. But, he told himself, that was why she was Admiral and he was Lieutenant and that's the way things were going to stay.

You're not cut out for the military, his brother told him before he signed up. Oh, but I am, that was always his call of self-defense. I'm good at listening and I'm good at strategy and I'm good at following orders and from time to time, I can even take the initiative and make things happen. Yeah, but just how many orders are you willing to take? It's going to break you, Louis. It's going to change you. It's going to take your notion of glorious servitude and turn it on its side.

Well, he remembered saying, at least we're not at war. Two years. I'm giving it two years, that's what I signed up for, that's all I signed up for. And then I'll have it under my belt -- shut up, no queer jokes, you ass -- and it'll look good on my resume and I can go about my business. Make something of myself.

That was much more than two years ago. Here in the privacy of his room under the cover of never-ending darkness -- dusk and dawn and daylight were all manufactured by fluorescent lights and timing, nothing natural about that -- he looked down at Felix, brushed his fingertips through those tight dark curls on his forehead. Softly, not wanting to startle or to really even make his presence known, he traced the outline of the stylized tiger gracing Felix's chest. People all over the fleet were tired and lonely, worn out, distracted, sick to death of fighting, sick to death of _running._ Things hadn't gone well for his man lately. An anger, a disconnect and -- understandable since Dee's suicide -- an inability to sleep. He wasn't even sure Felix was sleeping now. Morpha made it singularly hard to tell.

Awake or asleep, he could feel Felix slipping out from under his grasp. He'd been remote and short-tempered and all that was so understandable, it really was, but that didn't make it easier to accept. Beneath the tips of his fingers the man so precious to him stirred, started, awoke. Eyes wide, heart racing, staring at nothing but a phantom from a dream.

"Gods." Felix swallowed hard, grasped his hand like a steadying life-vest in a vast and unfriendly ocean. "I see her, Louis. I see her every time I close my eyes. I see Dee with that smile on her face just standing there humming a tune. I keep _trying_ to get the gun from her, but I can't move quickly enough. It's my godsdamn _leg._ "

"Shh, shh." He couldn't tell Felix things were all right, because they were nowhere near all right. He couldn't promise that things would be better come morning because come morning, Dee would still be dead and his partner -- for now -- still would have heard her pull the trigger, would still have been splattered with her blood. Morpha was the only thing strong enough to dull the pain of memory, ease the trauma of watching his friend, his good friend, take her own life. If the tables were turned, he'd want the drugs too.

In the back of his mind he wondered: if the leg was still there, would he and Felix have found one another? It was a question that could never be answered and an answer he wasn't sure he wanted anyway. In the darkness he cradled the man he knew he admired and was pretty sure he loved, doing his best to chase the phantoms away. "You need rest. If you want, I can help you find it." One hand crept beneath the blanket, refusing to take no for an answer.

He would never in a million years tell another soul that offer and that act were what made Felix Gaeta weep. Tomorrow, he would talk to Colonel Tigh. Tomorrow, he would demand that Galactica's Senior Officer of the Watch be granted some much-needed time off. For this man, he would move mountains if only they existed in the depths of space. Instead, he would have to settle for moving aside the stars.

 

**II. Sam and Kara**

The words (word: the smallest free form that may be uttered in isolation with semantic or pragmatic content and with literal or practical meaning; this contrasts with a morpheme, which is the smallest unit of meaning but will not necessarily stand on its own) filter past and there are so many connections, so many things going on that they're nearly impossible to hear. But even now, even with all the known information the Cylon nation has at its disposal literally at his fingertips, all of it clamoring for his attention -- so much to learn, to absorb, so little perceived time in which to do it -- he hears her voice. This state is preferable to one of reserve power. That condition gives rise to no fear, only to a marked lack of awareness regarding surroundings. Full power brings infinite awareness. It brings sound light color vibrancy power words dreams. Nightmares. Memories, so many memories, lives lived over and over again in instants, in moments, with the connection of a switch and the rebooting of a knowledge database, a computer, a... a brain, the most powerful computer known to human or Cylon. Self-serving, repairing, infinite in its capabilities and processing power.

The memories that spike on startup lurk in low-power states. When the demands on this body's neural net are insubstantial, those memories come out to play. The processing power of normal movement and speech and expression might be out of reach in those moments but there is nothing, nothing, nothing wrong with this brain and even now, even with the ability to see and detect the falsehoods and implanted memories as opposed to the real ones, every moment, every one either real or imagined is something to be cherished. Today he sees Kara. Today he sees himself on Caprica. Today if he could he would laugh at how... how incompetent he was there at first, stumbling through, believing so fervently that Cylon equaled evil, that it was a case of us versus them, that everyone and everything was suspect. In its way it was a brilliant plan and really, his children didn't need to eradicate the entire human race to make their point. All they needed to do was plant one tiny seed of doubt and the effect would have been even more powerful, but they were mere children and still learning they didn't have to win through bullying. They would: it had all happened before. It would all happen again. They _were_ the thirteenth tribe. All this he knew now, and it filled him with a mixture of peace and sorrowful longing. This body was finished, the damage from a single sudden bullet too great, too extensive. He would never walk forest paths again, feel the grass beneath his feet, the sun shining on his skin. It was too late for regrets: things happened as they happened and in this... this gift he'd been given, the gift of continued survival (however long it lasted), he was free to do all those things through wishes, through dreams, through memories. They were almost as good as the real thing. Almost. No, they were nowhere as good but they're what he had. Has.

He dreams of Kara. A stranger in camouflage, an angel wielding firearms, standing on the steps of the abandoned building with fire in her eyes and determination in her heart, and he knows from the minute he sees her that she is meant to be his. There are precious few people left to evoke that strong a reaction in a body that's been trained over the years to respond instantly, but he knows. He knows. He doesn't let her out of his sight and even though she might be one of them, one of the enemy, he doesn't shoot at her. As far as he knows the sum total of remaining human beings is fifty-three. If these two are human that makes it fifty-five and it means they're slowly crawling back to where they were this morning before nearly half their number was wiped out. Every life is precious, every single one, and if these two are Cylons then they're doing a godsdamn great job at looking different. All the ones he's seen before have had identicals. Twins, triplets, quadruplets, on and on. He's never seen these models before, although he has seen toasters in Colonial Fleet uniforms. It's all smoke and mirrors, all a game. Everything's a game, that's how it feels, and it's because games are what he's been trained to know and understand. He's moved under the guise and comfort of games with rules, and even the attacks and counter-attacks they've launched have been games based on fiction and fantasy. They've worked, but he can only think in terms of rulebooks and strategies, either time-tested or new and bold.

How many foul breaks against Aerilon: she's got to be kidding but she isn't. At least that question's playing by the same rulebook he knows and in his mind he rewinds the game tape, the one he saw so many times. Three, there were three foul breaks. Wrong, she tells him, four. No, three, he sees it as clearly as the daylight peeking through the trees, one called back on instant replay. He's right, Starbuck, says the other one, I lost twenty cubits on that game. See? he wants to tell her, and does so with a nod of his head toward the man. Someone knows what they're talking about. Someone paid attention in school the day they covered last year's playoffs. Guardedly, they agree they're all human -- he didn't know at the time, he didn't know, but wouldn't have changed a thing if he had or at least that's what he likes to think from this limbo-state vantage point -- and he keeps Kara by his side on the way back to camp, tells her and Helo what they're doing, what they have been doing, and the more time he spends at her side the more he acknowledges to himself that his first impression was right. She is meant to be his, and it won't be easy and it won't come to him without a challenge but challenge is the thing he thrives on, and when she hands pyramid to him on the proverbial silver platter, he knows knows _knows_ that this was meant to be. Their bodies synchronize, move together, play out an entire world of hinted-at sexuality right there on the pyramid court, the one he and Barolay and Ten-Point and Sue-Shaun and Hillard and Rally and Morris Fink and Jo-Man built together when they got here. They built it because it was the one thing they knew, the one love they all had in common, the only thing that made sense in a world gone utterly upside-down. This game is more than a game, it's absolute gritty intentional foreplay and he knows it and Kara knows it, and when they end up in the abandoned classroom turned munitions locker he sleeps in because someone has to guard it all -- when they end up naked and in each others' arms, frakking like there's no tomorrow because as far as they know there is no tomorrow -- it's perfection in the moment. It's perfection, and she's meant to be his just like he's meant to be hers, and for the space of a few of the single most beautiful hours of his life all is right with the world once again.

This form, this body, this human body, this precious form: no wonder it was so coveted. With it the potential exists to do anything. Everything. To see, to touch, to incorporate, to learn, to taste, to love, to fear, to grow, to _hear._ To hear a voice, a voice that brings him back to the reality of now instead of the dream of then. A voice. Kara, Kara, Kara Thrace, perfect lace, his very own Kara Thrace. The programming takes over, the voice positively identified as wife. Positively identified as partner. Identified, identified. Identified as love and lover, as cause and effect, as the singular and stubborn reason for continued existence. _You were my Sam,_ she says.

I _am_ your Sam, he would like to respond. But that subroutine is inoperable, bifurcated and bypassed to alleviate the overcrowding on the neural network. The words are subluminal subliminal substandard subpar, no, yes, yes to all but relegated to a _subordinate_ position in the programmed hierarchy. Top-tier importance goes to non-optional systems: nervous, respiratory, circulatory, endocrine. These are maintained by a finite series of bonds propagating adequate minimal operational response. Unnecessary systems relegated to the inoperable or standby loops include digestive, urinary, reproductive, muscular, and skeletal, along with their lesser components: speech, smell, taste. Touch and hearing input are critical and must not be disturbed under any circumstance lest the vessel containing this intelligence and experience be endangered.

(Don't shut me down, don't shut me off. If you only knew. If I could only tell you the the the dreams the nightmares that flood this system with every power surge. I _am_ your Sam. I have always been your Sam; I will always be your Sam. All this has happened before, it will all happen again.)

_And that's how I'm gonna remember you._

Imminent danger: initiate immediate self-defense subroutine. Rerouting resources to skeletal and muscular systems. Commence countdown. 00003 00002 00001 engage. Expunge all verbal utterances in queue stack A359 {order=random}.

Pause. (Repeat)  
Pause. (Repeat)  
Pause. (Threat neutralized)

Init subroutine NEW COMMAND. Resume function.

Resume function.

Resume function.

 

**III. Laura and Bill**

"We could have ruled the world together like a king and queen." One more, one more: Laura Roslin was actually very good at hand-rolling cigarettes, if that's what they wanted to call them. What was one more cancer on top of another anyway? Beat the odds once, a woman can do it again. No thanks to Gaius Baltar and his moment of scientific brilliance this time, although his scientific brilliance had never been called into question. Only small things like integrity and faith and loyalty and sanity, but who was she to say who and what was sane any more in a world gone utterly crazy?

"The question is which one of us would have been king." At her side, Bill laughed and laughed well into the lines and wrinkles he'd gained since this frakking war had started. The mustache was going to have to go, she decided, but at his convenience. Right now the tip of the cigarette glowed against it, and she liked the way it looked. Here in the darkness on New Caprica with nothing but the stars overhead and the embers from the fire to light the night, life was different and simpler. It had to be: they had some amenities, but she wasn't so sure they were all that necessary. All the things they'd fought to keep! By settling here, so many of them went away but people seemed to like it. They did. They grew lazier and more complacent every day there were no Cylons in their midst.

"You would have been king. In title, at least." Laura plucked the cigarette from Bill's fingers, helped herself to a deep lungful of smoke from what everyone who lived planetside called New Caprican Leaf.

"That's something." When he laughed Bill's chest rumbled and she liked the way it felt. Her palm flattened against the buttons of his uniform, listening accomplished with fingers instead of ears.

"Appearances, Admiral, appearances. Once we were in charge of all we surveyed and all we had to do was airlock a few toasters to bring people back in line. Now the lines are wavy and insubstantial. I'm a schoolteacher again and you know what, Mr. Adama? I _like_ it." One, two, three smoke rings headed up into the night sky against a backdrop of stars so vivid she could hardly stand it. The sky had never been so vibrant from Caprica.

"Mister Adama." He laughed, took one more hit off the cigarette, and crushed it into the sand by their side. "No one's called me that in years."

"Admiral, then." Taking in a deep breath and letting out one that was even deeper, Laura cradled against him and never wanted the moment to end, not even for a fraction of a second. "If you like this leaf, Admiral, I'll take you up to where it grows tomorrow. You can harvest yourself a supply. Make it party time up there on Galactica."

""Now there's a thought. Another one says I might want to stay here instead, but someone's got to run the fleet. Lee's good, but he's not that good." When his hand moved to nestle in her hair, she didn't complain.

"Lee's young and impetuous. He's good at a lot of things, but not at as many as he thinks." Wasn't that always the case, though? Hadn't she bulldozed her way through dozens of situations she'd never prepared for, never thought she'd have to face? People learned by trial and error. When the future of all humanity was in one's hands, what were they supposed to do? No, they had to leave it to the best, the most experienced, the brightest. "Were there ever times, Bill, when you thought you weren't going to make it?"

"No. I never had the luxury of self-doubt."

That much she believed: he was uniquely strong, uniquely confident even when he didn't feel it. Someone had to be. Someone had to display the spine of steel -- the human one anyway -- when everybody else was ready to give in and give up. They were a good match, really: he was strong and determined, and she was ruthless and unforgiving. Put them together and the world might actually have a pretty decent king and queen.

"I had nightmares about a Two." She refused to call any of them by name. Right now those dreams seemed about as far away as they could possibly be: the Cylons weren't a current threat, although she wasn't fool enough to assume they were gone for good, just biding their time. "Right before word came in that they'd found one on the Gemenon Traveler."

"Huh." Bill turned, pressed a scratchy kiss to her temple. "That model thinks it knows things. It's full of shit, just like all the rest of them. I told Starbuck it would try to get under her skin. That's what they do. Try to evoke sympathy. Empathy. You sure it was before you knew they had one aboard?"

"Mmm." The stars were so bright, so vibrant. "I blamed the chamalla extract. Still do."

"What'd you dream?" He turned toward her now, his arms no less of a cocoon than before and she liked the warmth, the proximity, the way he felt, the way he smelled faintly of leaf and ambrosia and sand (alluvial deposits her _ass_ ) and sweat and of carrying the weight of humanity's protection squarely on his shoulders.

"I can't remember any more." It was a blatant lie, but the dream didn't matter. What good would it do him to know that she'd been afraid, afraid like any woman being chased through the woods should be? No good at all. She was better than that, and stronger than that, and she was never weak, not once. She was the dying leader who would bring humanity to the promised land. New Caprica was not it and for that and because of that, she needed to survive. She had to fulfill the prophecy. It wasn't her time, not yet, and so she smoked away.

At her side, Bill looked unconvinced. "It's always been my observation that memory is a just trick of convenience." Still, his arm didn't move from around her side; his fingers played with the fabric of her sweater. "But you know what I say? Frak it. Frak all of it. Tonight, we're the frakking king and queen of this planet. Show me someone who's going to dare to say otherwise. Look up there. Look at the stars. Have you ever seen anything more beautiful than that?"

"Mm-mmm." But she had, just now: the hope and idealism in his words. Wisely, she kept _that_ observation to herself.

 

**IV. The Agathons**

"You know what, Karl? We don't have to eat algae any more." Sharon poked at the embers of the fire, a small but genuine smile on her face.

"But I was beginning to like algae." The real story was that while algae had saved them in general, he was just glad to be alive. The moment he told Sharon to go, to find Hera, to get their daughter, he wasn't sure he was going to make it. He wasn't sure at all, and he would take the bad leg and the aches and pains for the rest of his life as long as it meant he got to be with them. With Sharon, with Hera. He didn't want more.

Always running, always skipping, always curious, Hera pointed up into a tree the likes of which he'd never seen before. This was a beautiful planet. Starbuck did them proud.

"Mama. Papa. Look, lights in the trees."

"Fireflies." Sharon repeated the word slowly so Hera could learn it. "Fiiiiiiire-flies"

"Fiiiiiiireflies." The word poured out of Hera's tiny mouth like water onto sand. It sat there for a minute, then changed _everything_ when he grabbed her, tickled her tummy and made her laugh. Gods, he loved his daughter more than he'd ever imagined he could.

"Fireflies." With the makeshift cane propped by his side, Helo sat back against the rough bark of a tree and held his daughter close. "We had fireflies on Caprica. I'm going to tell you a story about them, so you know it too."

Hera nestled, something she rarely did: it was easier for her, or more natural for her, when she wasn't held and he never knew if that was her Cylon heritage or just the way she was. Sharon could be the same way. Either way, she was his daughter, his shining light, and regardless of whether she was the shape of things to come (a big responsibility for a little girl), she was certainly the shape of his family to come. Whether or not there would be other siblings wasn't something he or Sharon could predict, only something they could hope for. "Honestly," he told his wife the night before they all left to come down here, mid-packing, "I'm not sure my heart could stand it if I had to be running after _two_ of them all the time."

Sharon laughed and agreed that for now Hera was enough of a handful, and besides, he could hardly be expected to run any more. Then she grew serious. "Do you think she'll ever sleep through the night without the night terrors? Without the screaming?"

"She's been through a lot. Give her time, give her time."

"That's easy for you to say. She'll only fall asleep in _your_ arms, Karl. I wish I knew what Boomer did to her on that frakking baseship."

"Shh, Sharon. It was Boomer, not you. Hera's smart. She knows the difference."

"You think?" Her voice held a moderate challenge. When push came to shove, _he_ hadn't known the difference but there was nothing any of them could do about it now.

"I do. I know it, you'll see."

*

"Papa, tell me about fireflies."

Karl could feel his voice rattle against the tree bark, against the night air, when he spoke. "Here goes, listen carefully. Once upon a time, there was a little bug named Nyx. She flitted from leaf to leaf and branch to branch. Every day she worked hard at finding food to eat and nectar to drink and water to bathe in."

"Like us," Hera piped up sleepily.

"Just like us, baby," Sharon agreed with a laugh. She took her seat next to them, rested her head on her husband's shoulder.

"One night Nyx was fast asleep when she had a dream. In her dream, the king of the bugs -- of all the bugs on the whole planet -- told her she was destined for something great and wonderful. As it so often happened, the dream was prophetic. That means it foretold the future."

In his arms, Hera nodded. She was smarter than should have allowed, but he also knew she was special and that he and Sharon were incredibly lucky. Maybe no luckier than any other parents, but that was something he could consider another time. "When Nyx woke up, the dream stayed with her and all day long, she wondered what this great and wonderful destiny could possibly be. That very next night, she found out." His voice lowered; Hera's eyes were closed and that meant she was close to sleep. "Just as Nyx was getting ready for bed that night, her best friend Hemera came flying over in a snit. 'Nyx, Nyx, wake up!' she said. 'The prince has fallen into a spider web and we need help! We can't get him out!'

"'Well, what do you want me to do about it,' Nyx asked? 'I'm just a little fly, no stronger than you are.'

"'Send out word,' begged Hemera. 'Gather up all the other flies. Maybe together we can make a difference.'

"Try as she might, Nyx couldn't fly fast enough or strongly enough to get word to all the other flies. Most of them were asleep, and the only thing that would wake them up was light. And as she thought and wondered what to do and how to help, a miraculous thing happened. Her thoughts turned into words, written words, and as she danced and paced and thought even harder, they lit up the night sky. It was then she realized she was the one doing the writing, and that her tail was as bright as its own tiny sun. 'Look, look,' all the other flies cried as they wiped sleep out of their eyes. 'The prince is in danger! He needs our help!' They read the words Nyx spelled in the night sky, and a mighty crowd gathered. Just in time, too! The spider was about to wrap the prince into a silky cocoon when the flies joined as one big group and together, stormed the spider's nest. It was a heated battle and some of the flies fell, but whenever things seemed darkest, Nyx was there lighting up the night sky. They defeated the spider and rescued the prince. 'Because you have been so brave and strong and helpful,' he said to her, 'I hereby take you as my wife. Together we will rule this land and you will teach all our citizens how to light up the skies for themselves. From now on, we will be known as fireflies.'"

Hera's head, heavy against his chest, didn't move and he knew she was sleeping, but he went ahead and finished the story anyway.

"And they all became something new, something like what they had been only better, and lived happily ever after." He turned to Sharon, a small smile on his face as if something bigger would disturb their daughter. "She's asleep."

"Mmmm." By the dim light of their fire, he could see Sharon smiling. "I like that story. There's something familiar about it." She took Hera from his arms, settled their girl in her own makeshift bed, and as she did every night, sang her a little lullaby.

"Close your eyes, go to sleep  
Baby's in the cradle counting sheep  
Climb up to your house of dreams  
Baby's in the cradle fast asleep "

Settling again at his side, Sharon laced her arm through his. "That's a good story. Did your parents tell it to you over and over again?" Made, not born, she'd never had parents -- not like his -- but there was nothing wrong with her imagination, he knew that.

"No, no." Karl smiled, kissed the side of her head. "I just made it up tonight."

"Well." She moved just that much closer, her arm snug around his. "I knew you were creative. I also knew falling in love with you was the best thing I could have done."

In the darkness, Karl smiled. A shooting star streaked overhead, huge and trailing and beautiful.


End file.
